I like sunflowers. They are not what one
imagines them to be. We live in dreams.
They are scruffy-haired punk muscle-blooms
greened with a collar of untidy spikes.
When I brought them home I hoped to catch what
van Gogh caught but black and white, dramatic
hairy stems like dutchmen’s legs, supporting
scimitars of bristles, taloning up
to cast shadows of a nest of fresh claws
across the wall to the clock; time as trap.
In art they stand to represent the dead
just a temporary glory, gleaming
like these two here today, their faces set.
Petals sharpened. Clock in waiting, bides its time.